oh, you.

Maybe it was your eighty-degrees-in-the-fall that threatened my cardigan wearing habits.
Maybe it was the sun, seeking me out all day, finding me and all my imperfections.
It could have been your people, quick to smile and talk and hug and chat - leaving me feeling awkward and out of place.
Whatever it was, I had to get away.

We ran as far as we could. From sunshine and smiles to rain and scowls. And while I brought my giganto pearl earrings with me, I was trying really hard to leave behind the awkward pain of not being comfortable in my own skin. I found so much solace in gray days and quiet women and books and rain soaked gardens. I learned to love farmers markets and beans and lakes instead of beaches. My kids grew up thinking the sun was a novelty, maybe even a menace and their pale skin fit right in with their sweet friends.

But now, here we are.
With sand in my diaper bag. Loving the humidity that hugs me tight in the morning and the freckles dotting all of our faces.
Because I read somewhere that the painful yucky feeling when you're in a room full of people (smiling and shaking hands and wearing pastels), that feeling has more to do with the idol worship of people's approval and less to do with their smiling or their palmetto-shaped necklaces. And I was talking to some ladies this weekend about that horrible realization that your spouse's existence isn't to please you or serve you or meet your needs, but to glorify God. And what if He doesn't live up to your expectations, and worse yet - what if you've never lived up to your own? But somewhere in the rain, I learned to love the grace the held me up when I broke though all the expectations like a wooden chair that was way to small to hold my weight.

And now - because of what I learned in the rain, I love the sun.

I'm thrilled that when my kids are grown, they will say they're from Boston.
But I'll always be proud to say that I'm from the South.